


Fragile Shards

by Gallica



Series: Asylum [1]
Category: The Darkest Shade of White
Genre: Art, Art School, Gen, neuroatypical character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:58:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9643538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gallica/pseuds/Gallica
Summary: I've entered a strange place; known by the denizens as "Society." This Society is filled with artists. Not just regular artists, not people who only draw with graphite and ink. These Artists practice every kind of art: writing, dancing, singing, and acting. But they aren't common artists. These Artists dance on air and send sonic blasts of power strong enough to push someone off their feet.I was not impressed.Yes, these are wonders, but Society is incomplete. The Dean Councilor tells me that Art is ordered, that only 135 Artists come to Society each year, yet it is not ordered enough to send an equal number of each kind of Artist. We'll be lucky to get a Writer this Batch. And it isn't ordered enough for the numbers to work as I think they should; to be based on a ratio of the world's population, which has changed drastically even after the half century since the last Batch.Other Artists must exist outside of Society. I should leave and find them. But not before I've found all the secrets that I can here; in case I can find a clue about the missing Writers.





	1. Chapter 1

Fidget disliked her calculus class, so she walked out of it. Her teacher, whose name she did not deign to remember, was in the middle of writing down a long problem, so he did not notice. The other students only watched her, waiting for the professor to turn around and catch her. He was still in the middle of the problem when she opened the door and went into the hall.

No one stopped Fidget in the hall. She had a purposeful way of walking that made it look like she was supposed to be there. Any other student sneaking out of class might twitch or have some other tell indicating their guilt. Ironic that Fidget was not, in this instance, living up to her namesake. When things bothered her, she moved her hands and fingers about like she was sprinkling fairy dust or casting a magic spell. But sitting in the classroom bothered her, not leaving it.

If anyone knew her, they would have stopped her. She had a habit of wandering off and away from wherever she was supposed to be; where others expected her to be. Her parents had hoped that the change of a new school and a new home would placate her. It never occurred to them that they were the ones that needed to change.

She walked inside the edge of a river even though it made her cold. Fidget wanted to go deeper where the soft water could caress her face and invade her ears, changing the sounds. If she did, she would drown and not be able to enjoy the water anymore. So she only went deep enough to run her hands through the water.

Fidget shivered, hoping that she would get a cold and not have to go to school, when a different tingle went up her spine. Something was out of place; she hated that. Fidget tapped her arm and hummed to focus on her surroundings so she could find out what was bothering her. She was in Olympic National Park, large trees surrounded her. Big things scared or bothered her if they were noisy like trucks, so the redwoods were not a problem. The birds had been talkative. Until now she had to tune them out. Ah, that was it. She’d found the particular silence that surrounds a large group of humans.

Then in the silence, words.

They came from all around. _Do you seek to be entertained? Do you glory in the work of titans as you stay in the shadows? Are you a problem solver or a watcher? Are you an outcast? Oh, of course you are. But what kind of outcast are you?_

Fidget did not look around or show any sign acknowledging that she could hear the voices. She did not like them, and she had a bad feeling that they wouldn’t stop if she tried to find them. Instead, she went upriver, and persistent questions of _Do you . . .? Do you . . .? Do you . . .?_ faded behind her.

With the voices finally gone, something else grabbed Fidget’s attention. She looked up. At first glance, what she saw looked like a bridge. When Fidget wandered closer and could see it more clearly, she found that it was a large building that curved over the river. Careful blends of stone camouflaged the building so that Fidget could just barely discern it from the background. Even the center shimmered to mimic the river and appeared fluid. She wanted to touch the middle section of the building, to see if it were truly solid.

Sections of the building shimmered elsewhere. Fidget had a feeling that they weren’t supposed to do that. The shimmers stood on the building and at either door. Fidget got onto the left bank, and the shimmers surrounded her, forming a hallway that led her to the door. Curious, Fidget extended her arms, pretending to be a trapeze artist, and the shimmers backed out of the way. She lowered her arms again, approaching the building. Her initial plan was to pass by the door and walk across to touch the painted water. Then someone distracted her by opening the door. Fidget’s eyes locked with those of a gray-haired man with a goatee.

“Hello, Zoraida Aquino,” he said. “Welcome home. Please, come in.”

Fidget remained calm while I twitched. The old man did not see. She acted and did not come inside. “Who?”

“Isn’t Zoraida your name?”

It was the name Fidget’s parents kept calling her. “I don’t like it.” Who knew what depraved methods he might have used to learn her name. She had no nametag or bag with her name on it with her; she hated nametags. Yet this man did not appear to have a hungry desperation in his eyes. Fidget had a good sense for telling if a man was like that, and this one was not.

“Why don’t you like your name?” he asked her.

“My parents gave it to me.”

“And you don’t like your parents.”

While Zoraida had trouble relating to her parents, she had no problem with their name choice. She liked it because most people forgot it quickly so she rarely had to deal with anyone calling her by it. Fidget shoved Zoraida down so that the stranger would not suspect that his idea was not true. “You’re very perceptive.”

“I should be, I’m a Puzzler. If you do not want to be called Zoraida, what name would you prefer?”

“They used to call me Fidget.”

“Your family?”

“My school.”

“That’s not a real name.”

“It’s better than Zoraida. Call me what whatever you want. What’s your name?”

“Lewis Rideton.”

“Do people other than you live here? This is a big place for one person.”

“Yes, they do. You will soon live here as well.”

“Are they all girls?  Is this a harem?”

“What?!” Lewis nearly lost his hold on the door. Fidget decided that he was safe and went inside. Lewis backed out of her way and closed the door before he spoke again. “Why would you think–” he began

“I had to test you to make sure.”  She gazed at the white marble walls covered in various words, music staves, sketches, and paintings. “So, this is a sanctuary for artists. And not just those who draw, but those who write music and words as well.” She spotted a crossword.  “And you consider puzzling an art. What is this place called?”

“This is Society. The building we’re standing inside of is the Grand Arch.”

“How special are these artists that they need a secret place to live?”

“Haven’t you ever noticed that there’s something abnormal about your perceptiveness or ease at solving puzzles?”

Fidget stared both at and past Lewis with fierce, unfocused eyes. “Everything about me is abnormal, that doesn’t mean I’m special, too.”

“You found this place. Only Artists find this place.”

“Through some kind of magic?”

“No, because Art leads them here. It chooses only a few people to own its powers. Once anyone could have such power through the nine Relics, but they were lost.”

“I’m guessing these powers go beyond the capabilities of being able to draw a realistic face or doing a convincing presentation of someone in a play. Will I be able to see other Artists use their power?”

“Yes.”

“And there are nine types of Art?”

“Nine Categories: Drawing, Music, Acting, Sculpting, Observing, Dancing, Singing, Puzzling, and Writing.”

“Observing? Art seems more like a creational practice. Even Puzzlers could make something for their peers to solve.”

“The modern word for Observing would be Photography. Astronomy and birdwatching could fall under it as well.  Traveling too.”

“These would be Sub-Categories within the Art?”

He clapped his hands. “I love it when a new Puzzler comes to us. You always require so much less explanation.” The doors opened. “Ah, here is your escort.”

The girl who entered wore a yellow T-shirt and flexible, skintight pants. She had bob cut black hair and dark eyes. “Hi, my name is Jenna,” she said with a grin, holding out her hand.

Fidget took the hand out of courtesy without hesitation. I screamed inside her.

“What’s your name?” Jenna asked when it was over.

“My name is whatever you want to call me.”

“Don’t you want to be called by your real name?”

“No.”

“Is there anything you specifically prefer?”

“If there were, I would have told it to you. Why aren’t either of you wearing shoes?”

“Why aren’t you wearing shoes?” Jenna returned.

“I was walking in the river and didn’t want soggy bits of socks stuck to my feet. You have not been in the river nor have you been doing anything else that might make you remove your shoes.”

“You’re a Puzzler, aren’t you? I’m not wearing shoes because touching the ground with your feet enhances Art.”

Fidget wiggled her feet, feeling nothing. To fit in, she said, “Oh, you’re right.”

“Lewis, do I have to be stuck with this person?”

“Only for a day,” he told Jenna. “Just show her around.”

“All right.  Come on . . . um . . .” she considered Fidget’s darker skin, wavy black hair, and startling green eyes, “Esmeralda.”

Oh yes. Everyone else always connected that name to Fidget’s looks. Esmeralda didn’t always stick as a nickname because the self she showed others did not fit the moniker as well as her physical appearance. Perhaps she could try keeping that name this time. Perhaps she would like being Esmeralda.

Jenna and Esmeralda went up one of the staircases and through the door to the long hallway that crossed the river. I needed to fidget to get over the handshake. The hand-waving did not seem appropriate for Esmeralda, so she snapped her fingers as though there were a song stuck in her head. Jenna stopped speaking when she heard the sound; she’d been saying something about Batches holding a specific number of Artists coming every certain number of years. Esmeralda ignored Jenna’s stare.

In the hallway, Jenna pointed to nine doors on the left that led to Centers where Artists learned their craft. Each door was in the middle of a rounded arch of wall that suggested a cylindrical room with a dome roof. After the first two for Drawers and Musicians, Esmeralda knew the order and named ahead of Jenna.

Each center had drawings and writings related to their Art on the outer walls while the doors and portions above them had colors pertaining to their Category. Red covered the Drawers’ Center, orange the Musicians, green for Actors, brown for Sculptors, blue for Observers–

“Am I going to show you around or are you going to show me around?” Jenna asked Esmeralda.

“You’re going to correct me if I’m wrong.  Wouldn’t it please you to correct a Puzzler’s slip-up?”

Jenna stopped complaining after that. Esmeralda named yellow for Dancers, purple for Vocalists, and grey for Puzzlers before Jenna stopped her again.

“Aren’t you going inside?  It’s almost time for Afternoon Center.”

“Writers’ Center is the last one. I just want to look at it.”

Esmeralda walked over to the last door, which was black. When she saw it, she said, “Those Batches you mentioned, do they come to Society every certain number of years?”

“Every fifty-four years.”

“And how many Artists are usually in them?”

“There are _always_ one hundred and thirty-five.”

“How many are here now?”

“One hundred and thirty-two now that you’re here, excluding the Councilors of course.”

“Why are there no Writers?”

Jenna didn’t ask how Esmeralda knew that. “They used to come as often as other Artists. Then about a thousand years ago their numbers kept getting smaller and now each Batch is lucky to get at least one.”

“What do you know about it?”

“What do you mean? I just told you the story.”

“Yes, but there’s something behind your words. I’d say it was a curse of sorts.”

The girl grinned. “Figure it out, Puzzler.” She turned.

“Have fun in the Dancers’ Center.” Esmeralda called before Jenna had time to even look at the yellow door.

Esmeralda glanced at the gray door. Students had started filing in by then. Evidently, Jenna preferred to be early. She spotted eight teachers or Councilors as the Dancer had called them. As she watched one hundred thirty-nine faces walk by, she considered that the conquerors of America had taken more than land. What had happened here that the stories said Writers began to dwindle a thousand years ago rather than two hundred?

When Lewis arrived to teach, he gestured for Esmeralda to go in ahead of him. She went inside where she found fourteen other students seated. Most of them were boys.  Lewis went ahead of everyone else and began to introduce Esmeralda.

“This is, ah–” he paused when she glared. “Esmeralda. Come on up so we can see you.”

Esmeralda went ahead, hiding my reluctance. When she stood in front of the class, a sea of gray stared at her, analyzing her features. Fidgeting seemed unwise, so Esmeralda stared at a spot just above the Artists’ heads. This way, she did not have to look at them and she could pretend that they weren’t there. Lewis had the student Puzzlers introduce themselves. Esmeralda memorized them all, she would categorize them later. They were Anna, Gavin, Donald, Spencer, Larry, Cole, Carla, Mel, Sam, Constance, Jon, Thomas, and Max.

With the introductions over, Esmeralda returned to her seat. Lewis then launched into the lesson, talking about riddles and other spoken puzzles. This involved word tricks that Esmeralda disliked. She nearly walked out of the classroom, considering that this was too much like her old school, but then she knew she would get into trouble. She would rather not be kicked out of Society when there were seven other Arts for her to explore; eight if she were lucky.

At least there was a shimmer to distract her. There were sixteen of them, one for each Puzzler. And each shimmer had been positioned in such a way that it was in the best place to watch each Artist. Perhaps she should call them Watchers instead. No, that name belonged to something else.

After class, Esmeralda wanted to get to know some of the other Puzzlers. She was going to speak with them as she would with normal people. Then she found out that she didn’t have to do so. Puzzlers had a knack for picking up on nonverbal communication so that words were not necessary. After all, a significant amount of communication comes through expression rather than words, which only cluttered conversation with unnecessary noise. Esmeralda could _look_ at people when she was in that room.

Well, she could look at most of them. Gavin, Anna, and Max were more talkative than the others. Esmeralda supposed that they would be better at socializing with the Artists within the other eight Categories. Well, seven for now, if they never got a Writer.

While it would be easiest for Esmeralda to stay on the furthest side of the spectrum of those using nonverbal communication, it might not be wise. It was difficult to tell what exactly the shimmers thought of strange behavior, since they were merely silhouettes. Esmeralda decided to speak just enough to put her close to the center of her behavioral classification. While this was difficult for her, she had to be careful around those who hid themselves. There was no telling what their intentions were.

With the few words Esmeralda exchanged with the Puzzlers, she found that some were orphans while others had neglectful or morally aberrant parents. Those in the latter group escaped or left their parents and eventually found Society. In some cases, they came from the other side of the country. Esmeralda concurred with the others, using nonverbal language to convey that she didn’t get along with her parents either.

That didn’t mean she would forsake her parents entirely, especially since she didn’t want them or a search party traipsing through the woods trying to find her. She had a way to contact them. After wandering elsewhere several months ago, Zoraida couldn’t call her parents to tell them where she was because her phone was dead, and there were no outlets nearby for her to charge it. They gave her a small, solar powered charger in case she had this problem again. It seemed Esmeralda had fallen into this situation. She’d seen no outlets in Society so far.

When the brief socialization with the new Artist was over, the Puzzlers made their way to the cafeteria. The cook – a Sculptor named Gregory – had strange ideas about making food. He had used his Art to change the texture of parts of a meal so that things that were supposed to be liquid were solid instead and things that were supposed to be solid were liquid instead. The reversed food in question was meatloaf and red sauce. Esmeralda detested beef in every form it took, and the meal made her want to throw up. She left early, and a Dancer who was much kinder than Jenna came to escort her to her new room.

Esmeralda shrugged the other girl’s burning touch off her arm. “I can walk on my own. My legs are fine.”

The girl said nothing and moved away. “So you’re new here. I’m Mandy. What’s your name?”

“Esmeralda.”

“Really? Did your mom choose that name because of how you look?”

“Jenna chose that name for me.”

“Then that’s not your real name?”

“We all have names that were chosen for us. What difference does it make whether we’re named by our parents or not?”

“The difference is that was mean.  Calling you something because of how you look, the nerve of her . . .”

“I asked for a name and she gave it.  I don’t have any problems with it.”

“Why don’t you use your real name? I mean, the one your parents gave you?”

“I don’t like it.”

“It can’t be that bad. Tell me what it is and we’ll see how horrible it is.”

“No.”

She stopped; crossing her arms. “If you don’t tell me, I won’t show you where to go.”

Esmeralda’s pace did not slow. Mandy kept calling to her to get her attention, but Esmeralda ignored the calls. Finally, Mandy ran to Esmeralda and led her in the right direction. They did not talk on the way to Esmeralda’s room.

It turned out Esmeralda had a hut all to herself. She had thought at first when Jenna spoke of rooms that there would be dormitories inside of one large building. Instead, there was a collection of stone huts carved into the side of a cliff. Esmeralda counted four columns and eight rows.

“Each person gets one hut?” Esmeralda clarified.

“Yes.”

“Where are the others?”

“Haven’t you been on a tour yet?”

“There wasn’t time to finish it before Afternoon Center.”

“Oh. You’ll see them tomorrow. I’m sure Lewis will send you a guide.”

Hopefully, it wouldn’t be Jenna. After Mandy pointed to Esmeralda’s hut – one at the top that evidently no one wanted – they said goodbye to each other. Mandy went back to her waiting friends while Esmeralda hoped for a comfortable bed.

When Esmeralda saw that her bed was too close to the window, she moved it. She did not like having the sun full on her face when she awoke. Esmeralda went to the window afterwards, watching Mandy until she disappeared. Then Esmeralda pulled out her phone and called her mother.

The Puzzler fabricated a story about having signed up for a boarding school and finally getting accepted. She told her mother that they had informed her on the phone and she went straight there. Esmeralda’s mother came up with many objections, offered to send clothes and the like. The Puzzler countered each argument with every possible excuse until her mother gave up. Esmeralda then talked about the people she had met to appease her mother and hung up.

She’d put away the phone just in time. The other Artists were coming back to their beds. Esmeralda looked around her room and found a dresser where she hid the phone. It was time to conform to this idea of an Art family, without showing she still had ties to her biological one.

Another drawer in the dresser had grey silk pajamas.  After closing the curtains, Esmeralda dressed for bed, putting her grey skirt and black blouse on top of the dresser.  Zoraida had no paper, only a pen holding up her hair, so she scribbled on her belly to get over her frustrations of the day before she went to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The bed made itself that morning. Zoraida snapped her fingers in irritation. Esmerelda’s clothes were inside of the dresser rather than on top of it, and they smelled clean. After dressing, she found a bathroom within the hut. She hoped that the toothbrush was new. It didn’t smell strange.

When Esmerelda opened the front door, she saw Gavin standing outside of it, his shimmer just behind him. He waved. “Hey, I’m supposed to show you around today.”

She blinked. “After breakfast?”

“Yeah, if that’s what you want.”

“I’m sure you would prefer it, too. At least, your stomach would.”

Gavin nodded and they made their way toward the cafeteria. A shimmer raced through Esmeralda’s door just before she closed it. Luckily, Gregory only changed the look of the food rather than the texture that day, and it did not make her sick. Esmerelda neither cared nor paid attention to what it resembled so long as it didn’t rattle her stomach.

After they ate, Gavin took her to see the other huts. Some of them were in natural mounds in the ground while others nestled above them in the trees. Gavin pointed out his own among the stone huts.

“Not very close to yours, but at least it’s not so far away as the trees,” Gavin told her. When Esmeralda didn’t answer, he drew something out of his pocket and said, “Here, I’m supposed to give you this.”

He held a rod that was three centimeters in diameter and about the length of Esmeralda’s hand. It was clear and it gleamed with multiple colors, like a prism. Esmeralda took it from him.

“What is it?”

“A Scepter. Everyone has one. You’ll soon see what it can do.”

“You’re not going to tell me.”

“I think it’s better when you find out for yourself.”

Gavin soon left Esmeralda to her own devices. Before he was gone, he reminded her that Bonfire Night was that evening. He also let her know that other Artists sometimes battled each other on the rocks beneath the waterfall for Dueling Training. Gavin was going to watch, and he invited her to come. Esmeralda declined.

This sounded intriguing, but Esmeralda wanted to watch without any potential commentary made with Gavin’s annoying voice. She first went off as if to explore elsewhere, then she snuck toward the waterfall. When she got to the top of it, she knelt and got onto her belly, watching the fighting Artists below. One of them appeared to be a Vocalist while the other was a Dancer. The Vocalist used his power to send sonic blasts toward his opponent. The Dancer dodged each wave, occasionally reflecting the blasts back toward the Vocalist using a shield. Growling, the Vocalist drew out his Scepter and it transformed. Now it was a sword. He advanced toward the Dancer, swinging his weapon. The Dancer kept blocking the Vocalist’s attacks.

In the end, there was no clear winner. The Vocalist returned his Scepter to its original shape and Esmeralda learned that the shield had been the Dancer’s Scepter. Esmeralda crawled away from the cliff, heading for the woods. It was time for some experimentation.

Esmeralda hoped that the Scepter could turn into anything. She focused on simple shapes at first. At her will, the Scepter’s natural, cylindrical shape became a cube and a sphere. She felt a mental drain at these efforts. Was this supposed to happen or was there a way to bypass it? Esmeralda glanced at a stick on the ground. Her hypersensitivity focused on it, and she almost subconsciously changed her Scepter into a replica of the stick. Esmeralda felt no mental drain that time. In fact, she felt a weight taken off her. That must have been the trick to the Scepter; spontaneity. It was as though, if she were a Writer, she forced herself to write as opposed to writing at the moment of inspiration.

Speaking of the Writers, where were they? Perhaps they were going to a different school that was like Society.

She wandered off, exploring. Esmeralda came across nine huts that had been set apart from the others. These must belong to the Councilors. She passed the other colors – red, orange, green, brown, blue, yellow, purple – until she found the gray one. She knocked and Lewis’ voice told her to enter.

“Hello, Esmeralda, what do you need?”

“I wanted to ask you about the missing Writers.”

“Writers? There can’t be any Writers.”

“There can’t be any Writers plural,” she observed. “So you believe that only one Writer will come here.”

“We’d be lucky to get any at all.”

“And how can there be no Writers, or only one? There are plenty of them out in the world.”

“Those aren’t Writers. They’re writers.”

Lewis didn’t seem to understand that the actions and prosperity of Artists should affect the actions and prosperity of artists. I didn’t bother to correct his idiocy. “Why would there be only one hundred thirty-five Artists?”

“That is a pretty big number.”

“There are seven billion people in the world.”

“Not all of them are special. This is how it’s always been. Art seeks order.”

“There weren’t always seven billion people in the world.”

“So?”

If Art were meant to be orderly in a mathematical sense, it would change the ratio of Artists to ordinary human beings based upon the population. Even with my hatred of math, I knew that those numbers were off. Lewis was an idiot. Esmeralda left without another word.

She would have gone straight out of Society if she were not interested in the Writers. Society was her only key to finding them. Esmeralda decided that she would check the hut meant for the Writing Councilor. She would have to wait for Lewis to leave first.

Lewis stayed in his hut until it was time to eat. Esmeralda knew that I could get out of control if she did not eat. She went to get her food, using her Scepter to make a table for herself so that she would not have to sit with others. I frowned within my shell. The Scepter transformed more slowly than it had when I was alone. It must have been the noise interfering with my focus. Esmeralda sat on the far end of the table in an effort to avoid the conversational noise. It became too much, and it looked like Gavin was coming over to the table. Esmeralda picked up her food, returned the Scepter to its natural state, and left the cafeteria.

Esmeralda wanted to explore the Writer Councilor’s hut instead of going to Afternoon Center. But then, that probably wasn’t allowed, and she didn’t want to get into trouble. There were so few Puzzlers that Lewis would notice her absence.

At some point later that evening, when Lewis was gone, Esmeralda went to investigate the other Councilor huts. She found signs of other adult Artists inside them. They could catch her as easily as Lewis. She doubted that there was any event that would keep all of them away from their huts and allow her to investigate independently since she probably had to attend as well. Esmeralda needed some other plan. It could be a distraction or an enhanced sneaking technique. She sat at the edge of the area, scanning it. An open space surrounded the huts, creating a rough oval of trees. It would be difficult to sneak into the Writer Councilor’s hut unless it were at nighttime. She wouldn’t want to risk such a venture in case she stumbled upon something she couldn’t see. Then again, she could turn her Scepter into night vision goggles. But if she did go at night, Lewis could notice her sleeplessness among other factors and suspect her.

She could try something else with her Scepter later. For now, it was time for the bonfire.

The light of the great fire was not quite as harsh as that of the sun, even if I still found it too bright. At least it was not hot. Gavin told Esmeralda that it was painted light made by Drawers and so it could not create heat. Zoraida had a tendency to stare at fires in fascination, but that light might blind her, so Esmeralda focused on the shadows instead. They were not quite the same as typical fire shadows. They appeared more fluid. Perhaps the bonfire had been Drawn with ink.

Every other Artist in Society assembled around the bonfire. Esmeralda went off to find a corner removed from the din of one hundred forty people. Then she noted a stage that lit up as Lewis walked onto it. Oh no.

As I feared, Lewis got through a few pleasantries and then invited Esmeralda onto the stage. Holding her head high, Esmeralda walked through the crowd of people. They parted as she passed. Esmeralda barely kept composure as, within, I writhed in agony in front of so many people. I listened to nothing that Lewis said, as he gave a simple introduction full of irrelevant information. It was not until the words, “one hundred and thirty-second Artist” were said and more came after that Esmeralda began to listen and catalogue information for me to examine later. I could not pay attention now with so many eyes watching.

Lewis said something exhorting the student Artists to make Esmeralda feel welcome and help her prepare for Dueling. Dueling was a bit like what Esmeralda had seen earlier that day, except that randomly picked Squads of people would fight each other in an arena called the Canvasal. Lewis mentioned how many Artists would be in each Squad, but the number did not register in my mind.

Evidently, Esmeralda would be able to see for herself what this Canvasal looked like and how many Artists fought in each Squad the next day. These battles occurred every evening. Esmeralda had missed Duels her first two nights because she was settling in and so they were giving her time. Well, this would be good for me at least. I left the noise of the Bonfire and went to my bed, not sleeping. Lack of sleep made it easier to drown out the world. Tomorrow I would meditate and prepare my shells for the light, sound, and noise that would undoubtedly accompany the duels.


	3. Chapter 3

I had fortified my shells too well. I could remember almost nothing about my first dueling night, except that there had been noise. Sounds were the worst of the senses in the extreme. They were so difficult to block out, as there was not an eyelid equivalent for ears, and hands were inefficient. Esmeralda would have to stay loose the next night. Not quite as loose as she was now as she blocked out the noise of the cafeteria. Although, nearly the same amount of people _were_ in the cafeteria, so Esmeralda the shell should stay at a similar thickness.

While I had difficulty remembering the Duels, I quite clearly remembered staying awake the night before.

Around midnight, a shimmer entered my room. They usually stayed outside except, presumably, to make my bed. I had not yet seen my bed being made, only heard it. That night, the shimmer took up my clothes and left with them. It was gone a while before it came back and placed the clothes into my drawer, bringing with it a mild scent of soap. The shimmer left again.

I had planned to shift my Scepter into a mirror that morning, to see whether the shimmer was indeed responsible for making my bed. However, in my tiredness, I forgot both that morning and the next. It did not occur to me until now during lunch when I was awake.

Someone had said something. I gave it a moment and the words passed through Esmeralda and entered my mind for translation. “What did you think of the Duels last night?” As I considered the question, I identified the speaker: Gavin.

“You’re a Puzzler, shouldn’t you know already?” Esmeralda responded.

“I’m finding you difficult to read. You’re giving off mixed signals. I wasn’t sure if you were very intent upon the matches or distracted.”

“I was analyzing them.” Esmeralda then rattled off a few details about last night. Apparently, she retained some information that I could not reach. I did not look into that section of my brain in case I also found unsavory stimulants.

The tiny Scepter table was not large enough for Gavin to join Esmeralda and so he left. Esmeralda finished eating quickly and left the cafeteria. She noted that no one else had left yet. The rest of Society was clear. Esmeralda walked over and stepped into the Writers’ Center.

She thought for a moment that her eyes had stopped working. Had Esmeralda blocked out my sense of color? She withdrew her prismatic Scepter, comparing it against the background. No, the Writers’ Center was merely devoid of color. Sharp blacks and stark whites were everywhere, perhaps to evoke dark ink on a bleached page. Most of these colors came from the carpet and furniture. Old papers rested on various surfaces, including the ground. Esmeralda peered at them. Various bits of story and poetry sloped and skittered across them in multiple hands. Some of the old Writers had put their work on the walls as well.

Esmeralda sat in the middle of everything, passing a finger across one of the tables. No dust. The outline of a weary shimmer nearby glistened eerily at her. Perhaps it kept the place clean. The shimmer appeared to be benign so I lowered my shell. Absolute silence. This would be a wonderful place to stay and think until a Writer came. If any Writers came. I could not decide what I would want more: the quiet place or the Writer to observe. Well, I might leave soon after such an unlikely event, once I thoroughly studied the Writer.

I continued investigating the room, slowly reestablishing the layers of Esmeralda. Part of me glimpsed something unpleasant in the shimmer. Esmeralda snapped rapidly as she fought to keep the shimmer’s true nature a secret. The shell cracked under the threat of that dangerous question: True nature? Opening a drawer, Esmeralda found papers and a pen before turning to leave.

She saw something she had not noticed before, since it hung on the wall over the door. It appeared to be a black ink drawing on white paper. The picture depicted a hat, ink bottle, and pen resting on swirling darkness. Attached to it was a plaque that read:

 

He who was our salvation

Shall be our disaster

He with the power to save the world

Also has the power to destroy it

His life may have ended

But his words will continue

And Readers will bring him back from the dead

 

Esmeralda stored this information away for me to examine later, and approached the door. She paused, listening, wondering whether anyone would be angry with her if she were found inside the Writers’ Center. Well, it couldn’t be as bad as being discovered in the Writer Councilor’s hut. Someone was outside, and so she walked out to see if that person would admonish her. He did. It was Gavin.

“No one ever told me not to go into the Writers’ Center,” Esmeralda told him.

“But why would you want to go there? It’s for Writers.”

“Do none of you ever dabble in the other Arts?”

“We can’t. Each and every Artist specializes in _one_ kind of Art.”

“Regular artists try out other arts.”

“Yes, and we’re not regular artists.”

Esmeralda shrugged and went her own way.

 

 

 

The Duels that evening reminded Esmeralda of sparring she sometimes saw during free hours. However, usually only two people were involved in each spar whereas each Duel contained a total of six. The Duels also took place in the Canvasal, a weird pocket of space that allowed the host Artist to create any kind of world. This particular world contained an arena for fighters and spectators alike. The stands surrounded a wooded area with trees much shorter than those in the forest surrounding Society. Esmeralda’s jarring entry into the Canvasal nearly shattered her shell. She stared hard at the duel to keep the thought of it out of my mind.

This first Duel contained one of every other Art except Writing and Drawing. The Observer, Musician, and Dancer were on one team while the Actor, Vocalist, and Sculptor were on the other. The Actor disguised herself and went off into the labyrinth of trees while the Vocalist and Sculptor went searching for the opposing Artists. On the other team, the Observer found a trail. The three of them stayed together, following it. They found two of the other team members and fought. The Vocalist issued blasts of sonic energy from his throat while the Sculptor threw chunks of the earth. The Observer hung back, directing her teammates. The Musician transformed his Scepter into a flute and played notes that shattered the Sculptor’s projectiles. The Dancer skittered around, jumping around and onto the Vocalist’s blasts of sound. Was she Dancing on air?

With a kick to the Vocalist’s diaphragm, the Dancer neutralized his weapon. He fell over onto the ground, clutching his chest. The Dancer turned and saw her teammate grappling with the Sculptor. Their Scepters had been flung away and forgotten. The Dancer rescued the Musician and her team went off to find the Actor.

They dealt with a small amount of confusion when the Actor, disguised as the Observer, launched at the Observer’s throat. The Observer kept pulling away and running to avoid a twin fight, which would leave her teammates off to the side, wondering what to do. They soon subdued the Actor, winning the Duel.

After the Artists cleared the arena, the Vocalist Councilor Veronica called out the next six Artists who would Duel. Esmeralda’s name was among the others.

“That’s weird,” Gavin said from behind her. “They don’t normally call new Artists this soon after arrival. You haven’t even practiced yet, have you?”

Without answering Gavin, Esmeralda stood and left the stands, going down into the arena. What were the other names Veronica said? Who would be her teammates? Jenna the Dancer and Michael the Vocalist. They were up against Herbert the Observer, Nora the Puzzler, and Arthur the Drawer. Esmeralda would not show me what she had seen during the Duels I missed, though some of it must have involved a Drawer. She shuddered and tightened her grip on me.

Esmeralda and the other Artists paused after entering the arena to confer. It seemed as though splitting up was a bad idea. But then, there was no Observer on their team, and Esmeralda was under the impression that Jenna and Michael had no tracking abilities. Both of them were not convinced that they should follow Esmeralda’s lead, even though a Puzzler was automatically given leadership due to their natural, tactical thinking. Esmeralda disliked the idea of leading anyway, and she allowed the more experienced fighters to figure out which of them was best for the job. Michael had special way to converse with them using his Vocalist abilities. No matter how far away he was, it would sound as though he were whispering into their ears. Esmeralda failed to see how effective this would be. How could they communicate back to him? She voiced none of her doubts. While I cared about the outcome of the Duel, Esmeralda could not. She gripped me more tightly before I could begin worrying about likely failure or pushing myself to succeed.

Instead of finding some way to win, Esmeralda chose to watch closely and file away her observations for me to analyze later. I might have the chance to succeed next time.

Jenna Danced into the air, seeking a higher vantage point so that she might find the other team. Michael darted off. Esmeralda stayed in one place for a moment, staring first after Jenna, then after Michael. She saw something that they left behind, some kind of trail that she could not quite describe. It should help her find them later if needed.

It occurred to Esmeralda that I was particularly helpful in seeing the trail, that I could find out exactly what it was if she receded a bit. She would not do so, however. There was too much information in those trails that could harm me. Instead she considered all around her, allowing me to see just enough in case I could also track the other team.

Esmeralda spun around when she heard a voice in her ear. Oh, it was Michael. He said that he lost contact with Jenna. “Follow my voice and you can find me.” Michael sang softly and Esmeralda found that the singing was not just in her ear but in a specific direction. She strode toward it, frowning when the tempo slowed. Was that part of the song? No. The song faded and eventually stopped. Something had happened to Michael.

After several more yards, Esmeralda managed to find the trail she identified earlier and followed it to find Michael. It soon crossed with that of Jenna. She must be close. Esmeralda circled around, hoping to get behind those who set the trap. No one was there.

All that stood in the clearing was the trap itself with Jenna and Michael behind it, staring. A glittering rainbow of lights pulsed and wavered like stars and fire. I was mesmerized. All I wanted was to run my fingers through the lights, feeling and enjoying them forever. If I stepped into them, I could ignore everything else in the world, I wouldn’t have to hide anymore since the lights would protect me. Esmeralda screamed into me, trying to pull me away, threatening me with the many people watching in the stands. Well, they couldn’t be paying attention to me anyway, the lights were too beautiful. Besides, I had to find out which Artist made them, to touch it to find out what material it was made of.

Oil. Paint. Drawer. Oh how very clever. Esmeralda thought of my sibling, the painter. Whenever he cleaned his brushes, he used a foul-smelling substance. It was quite bothersome, and effective.

“Turpentine.” The power in the word helped my focus, and my Scepter transformed into a gallon of the stuff connected to a sprayer. Esmeralda obliterated the painted lights, taking complete control as I escaped the smell by diving within.


	4. Chapter 4

Esmeralda had not won the fight, though she certainly displayed ingenuity by both resisting Drawn light and neutralizing it. Most Artists averted their eyes or transformed their Scepters into special sunglasses. A Drawer’s work sometimes disappeared when the Artist was neutralized as well. Perhaps that meant that those drawings were not too strong or that they needed a constant stream of energy to keep up the enchantment.

More experimentation would be helpful in the Drawer investigation, but I had other important things to consider about the Duel, namely my Scepter. The Scepter had transformed with more ease than it had the other times, even with so many people watching. Their distraction should have made the effort almost impossible, considering how temperamental my Scepter became whenever I changed it into a table in the cafeteria. The power within it had been particularly potent when it became turpentine. In fact, it seemed to create a little power of its own instead of draining some from me. Was it the power in the word? Should I speak aloud my desires from now on? No, that would be tactically idiotic. What about the exposure of myself? I’d thought of something personal before creating the turpentine. Did that create potency?

My head snapped up. I’d been in the woods staring at my Scepter; listening to the calm, flowing sounds of the river. While I preferred the silence of the Writer’s Center, I wanted the freedom to make loud sounds with the Scepter without getting in trouble. The typical silent sounds of the forest had been interrupted by something new, by someone traipsing through the undergrowth. Esmeralda rose like a shadow and slipped behind a tree, peering around a trunk. A boy just a couple of years younger than herself followed the river toward the Grand Arch. He had the brown look of a Sculptor. Esmeralda went down to meet him, picking her way through a path that only I could see. The kid didn’t hear her as she glided behind his back, and so she had to announce her presence with a greeting.

“Ah!” the kid yelped, spinning around. “Who are you?”

“My name is Esmeralda,” my eyes focused on a point beyond him, just by his neck. “What’s yours?”

“I’m Brant Eccleston.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Heh, crazy story. Met this old guy who saved my life; told me to follow a river in the park that would take me home.”

“There’s more than one river in this park.”

“Yeah, he said that I would know which river was the right one. And it’s funny, this _feels_ like . . . not sure how to describe it, but it feels like something.”

“Because it is. I will walk with you the rest of the way.”

As Esmeralda fell into step behind him, I felt like I _needed_ something. My Scepter, which I gripped in my pocket, flattened into a grey cloak that I had to pull out as it formed to save my pocket from bursting. Esmeralda threw the cloak over her shoulders, fastening it, making me sigh in gratitude as the cloak provided an extra layer of protection from Brant’s closeness.

“Whoa, are you a magician?”

“No,” she pulled up the hood. “But a lot of the things you’re about to see might look like magic.”

As they strode on the riverbank, the voices started up again. _Are you sure you’re supposed to be here? Do you take pleasure in carving earth or flesh? Is your work meant to confuse? Will you even make things or will you pick something up and call it Art?_ Esmeralda glanced at Brant to see if he could hear them. He couldn’t.

“Is something on my face?” he asked.

“Just your nose.” Esmeralda tilted the hood again so she couldn’t see him.

Brant laughed; the sound quickly becoming awkward when Esmeralda continued to be silent. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

“Yep.” Something about Brant’s story from earlier bothered her. “This ‘old guy’ who told you to come here, exactly how old was he?”

Brant shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess he could have been someone’s grandpa?”

“Mm.” The missing councilor? “Have you seen him since then?”

“Nope.”

They walked in silence until they approached the Grand Arch. Brant made sounds of appreciation, nudging Esmeralda to look. I fought not to yell at him as Esmeralda said, “Yes, that’s where we’re going.”

When the door opened for Brant, Lewis’ greeting to the new Artist was cut short. “Esmeralda, what are you doing here?”

“Escorting Brant to Society.”

“Right. I’ll take him from here.” Lewis urged Brant inside, shutting the door in front of Esmeralda.


End file.
